


Holiday Happy Hour

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Fumbling Towards Ecstasy [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes-centric, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Domestic Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sassy Steve, Stucky - Freeform, Teasing, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 13:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13952637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Sometimes you just have to get away from it all, and Bucky takes up Steve's offer for a weekend down south. A weekend full of toe-curling, mind-blowing sex is exactly what they need after a hard week.





	Holiday Happy Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Lighter fare for the heart in this work. Bucky is finding his way back to a healthy, happy relationship. Please feel welcome to leave comments or feedback. I love comments. ^_^

A long weary winter's end drags into a bittersweet spring. But finally looking to escape the grey jungle of New York, where the days rise pale and thin and worn, Steve dares to leave make a suggestion. Some point late on a gloomy afternoon streaked by chilly clouds and dismal temperatures.

 _4:48 PM: How about a road trip this weekend? Let’s get out of this freezer_.

Bucky about drops the cup of coffee he carries, staring at the text glowing on the screen. He wipes up the spilled brew and strikes out his initial response, composing his reply in a shiver of excitement. It’s been forever and a few lifetimes since he left the city for any reason other than a mission or SHIELD’s check-in.

4:55 PM: _Where you got in mind?_

5:01 PM: _Georgia’s nice this time of year. Meet up at your place tomorrow morning first thing?_

Just the idea of leaving everything behind for no professional reason at all thrills him, a shock to the senses. The sense of freedom almost leaves him shaking, his hand pressed to the countertop for balance. The kids from Brooklyn they once were never hesitated to dream big and talk even bigger -- about how they might go check out the vast skies of the west or ride as far as Key West to take in the oranges and the sunshine when everyone else shoveled snow off the sidewalks. How much the world has changed since ‘42.

He signs a quick confirmation and hastens to let the staff at the club know where he’s going for the weekend. Thor won’t care, but if anything happens, he doesn’t want to run afoul of his boss. For everything else in the murky world of espionage, he trusts Steve to handle.

Preparations take hardly any time at all, the go bag he always keeps in the closet checked over. A fresh pair of socks thrown in, the henleys exchanged for lighter t-shirts, and he is ready to go.

It’s barely 5:40 PM and he has another twelve hours to fill up meaningfully. His apartment is already neat and tidy, orderly in the way of a man unused to such a bounty of personal possessions and furnishings. Wiping down the counters and the cupboards takes far too little time, as does sorting out his minimal recycling and garbage. He folds and refolds his laundry, reorganizing the cleaning supplies as he goes. By the time he has the place in picture perfect condition, right down to the simple spycraft defenses to check for disruptions while he is gone. Lines of dust and thread take minutes to set.

He has another nine hours to busy himself and the only option remaining is his bed. Falling into the crisp sheets and soft jersey pillows -- a gift from Clint, who swears by them -- brings another reckless stretch of time to fill his idle thoughts. Sleep remains hard at bay. Too early to crash into slumber, too late to wear himself out doing two hundred pushups, Bucky finds his hand straying between his legs to curl around his cock.

He can remember the sounds of Steve’s lips around him, the devilish slurps and muffled gagging calling him to painful hardness. His fingers barely need to coax blood to stiffen his length. Is it a sin to long for that red mouth bathing the bell-end in saliva and sucking so hard that Steve’s cheeks bow inwards.

Holding off would be difficult, but Bucky figures he would tease this dream figure, giving him only slight thrusts to satiate that rising desire. _Yeah, Steve has to work for it. Make me wanna slam my cock right down his throat_.

There’s a beautiful image, those crystal blue eyes welling up with ardor and wet from having his throat properly plumbed, Bucky’s balls smacking firmly upon the squared cleft of his chin. Would he tilted his head up higher to encourage the fat shaft deeper or run his tongue along the underside ridge, following the stiff line all the way back?

Slickness dribbles out around his metal fingers, smoothing the grooved ridges in their passage up and down. He starts to build up, having no patience for a slow, leisurely handjob. The veiled adoration and surprise constantly colouring Steve’s expression whenever they kiss or rub up against one another in the shower speaks to a perennial innocence. That darker part of Bucky’s heart in the night wants to defile the innocence, stain Captain America with cum and make him beg on his hands and knees to be properly fucked.

 _It’s wrong, so wrong_. But he cannot find it in himself to deny the image of Steve shouting hoarsely to a smack brought down on his cherry-red buttock, handprints spread across the glistening, oiled skin. The pace of his fist sliding up and down increases. Yes, he’d want to pound that puckered, dusky hole and pull out right at the point of an orgasm, first spraying a warm rope of his cum to mark who Steve belongs to. Then pierce that beautiful star right as it closes up tight, feeling the muscle rippling around his cock, to blow the rest of his load.

He shouts out Steve’s name into the night as the image carries him up to the shaking precipice of an orgasm. Somehow it pales beside burying himself in Steve’s mouth or deep in his ass, the melody of his fist rhythmically jacking his throbbing cock off an imperfect solution. But the release explodes out of him, pouring over his metallic fingertips, gushing into his palm. He grunts and raises his hips, craving the touch denied to him and that soft groan announcing mutual pleasure.

When tension floods out of his body, Bucky sprawls back on the pillows and hopes for sleep.

* * *

 

South to Georgia where it's already a full-blown, lush spring. The motorcycle trip is a long one, arduous in places, and yet there is something infinitely spectacular in feeling the land spread out along the girding seaside. Twelve hours of solid travel interspersed by a few setbacks liberate Bucky from the cares of the job and Steve from the heavy burden he shoulders along with that star-flecked shield stored in a backpack, always within easy reach.  
  
When they stop on the coast, the palpable change lurks in their looser postures and the grins thrown from time to time. Bucky pulls off his helmet and gives his hair a good shake, working his gloved fingers into his scalp as he brushes away the dark strands.

“Over that bridge?” He nods to the low cement span leaping across muddy waters feeding into the Atlantic, a thicket of dense green visible.

Steve balances the Victory easily, one hand still on the bars, while he shields his eyes with the other. “That’s the one. We’ll head up about a mile and it should be right on the side. Look for the lighthouse.”

“Barton marked the place with a lighthouse,” Bucky says.

“Yeah.” The golden grin is there. “Named it something like beacon of sanctuary. This is what he does with his money, squirrels it away in places we never get to visit.”

Shaking his head, the brunet soldier sits back on his bike. “Steve, you sure this place is safe? Barton and his lifestyle are…” A furtive smirk slips past without comment.

“He claims it’s from his mother’s side of the family,” says Steve. A rev of the bike’s engine from an idle to a louder purr signals his readiness to be on his way.

Bucky watches his silhouette outlined against the grey ribbon of asphalt trimmed in a cathedral halo of rich greens, the fresh breath of spring and a hint of salt on the air blown through the freshly budded boughs. Never a moment of doubt in Steve’s heart, and for a few seconds, he can believe it’s just a holiday weekend.

Their path ends all too soon, the destination marked by a faded red cedar lighthouse acting as a mailbox. Winter and the local bird life haven’t been kind, poking holes in the bark and leaving unwelcome stains on the peaked roof, but watching Steve grin like a schoolboy is worth it all.

A rutted drive weaves through the trees up to a house peeking past the foliage, set against the golden stretch of the beach.

“Why do I imagine this is the only house around that gets pizza delivery?” Bucky asks, slowing as he walks the bike up the gravel. Any faster and Steve would be eating rocks, not the most illustrious start to events.

A laugh answers him, throaty and easier than in the city. Something about New York weighs down on the strapping blond captain, and he never really drops his outer mask anymore.

“Speaking of, do we even have any food here?”  
  
“Clint took care of it,” Steve adds, following behind in a sinuous crunch of stone and low, humming idle.

They both manage to pull up to the sea blue house in front of the garage, killing the engines and taking in the entirety of the property set among the trees and the sea.

Careful maintenance gives the solid building a presence so different from plain old cabins upstate. They walk up to the deep veranda together, past the tall planters, to the imposing door carved and inset by leaded glass. The island, long ago the playground of the wealthy, retains some of that old glamour.

Steve busies himself with the lock and hauling in their saddlebags while Bucky follows the wraparound porch.  
  
“You should see this view,” he says, not sure that anyone hears. An appreciative whistle cuts the air as he traces the eastern beach that faces out into the Atlantic. Warm enough to swim during the day, the spring weather is cool enough to be pleasant.

Bucky intends to spend a lot of time just sitting on the beach, watching the waves. Not quite sunbathing, but close.

“You planning on coming in anytime soon, or should I get you some lemonade?”

Startled, he looks over his shoulder with a sheepish grin. Steve leans out of the side door to the kitchen, a box tucked against his side. True to his word, the assortment of chips and bread poking up join a variety of tins, Clint’s idea of a grocery run.

“Lemonade?” Bucky shakes his head, the tie slipping loose. “What are we, six?”

A glimpse out to the riot of colour in the back gardens brings the blond to a halt, and he slips back inside to leave the box on a counter. In a few moments, he emerges, stretching his arms out.

“Let’s go check out everything, then decide how to waste a day,” Steve says.

Right then and there, Bucky wants to slide his fingers through that thick blond hair and run his hands down the broad back, working out every knot and kink. He spent the last twelve hours and equally as many miles imagining how to take advantage of that remarkable body of Steve’s, and the thoughts return with a vengeance.

He loiters on the porch while Steve takes the steps at a go, already on the grass and looking back up, hand shielding his eyes.

“Buck! You coming?”  
  
Oh god, yes. He needn’t run to catch up. Putting his best friend in a natural environment always brings a certain special thrill. Not much different from when they were kids and managed to scrape together enough change for a ride to Long Island.

Steve is a cosmopolitan chap when you get down to it. Spring trembles along in the flush of her arrival and the soldier smiles now and then at the riot run rampant over verdant leaves and bursting pods. He thumbs a petal in passing, as though the salted air encourages such a gentle touch.

He looks up, a grin making him seem not more than thirty, if that. He points at an offshore collection of wedding cake houses in the distance.

"Hilton Head over there. Like the hotel Hilton people, isn’t that right?" Steve pulls a map out from his back pocket and unfolds the wad of paper, bit by bit, examining the circle he drew in red pencil around the indented coastline.  

Bucky draws up close and peers down at the green outlines printed in relief. "Hmm. Looks bad humour here, 'Daufuskie Island.' Doubt teenagers never mispronounce that.” He cracks a grin himself, unable to quite help it. “Jekyll Island sounds delightfully promising. They've a sea turtle centre there, apparently?"

The South is at its most appealing, dogwoods and azaleas in bloom, Spanish moss on the trees. "Not much to do on Daufuskie, these days, 'cept walk and go to the beach.” Steve’s knowledge catches the other man by surprise, and he waves a hand. “I asked Clint a few questions before we left. Daufuskie is hard to reach. no private marina, you gotta take a ferry from there.” Pointing at Hilton Head, he adds, “Hilton Head's built up. Jekyll's nice, apparently."

Bucky takes in the rolling waves over the pebbles strewn about on the water. Beside him, Steve strips off his boots and socks, no longer necessary this close to the waves. Soon as he has them off and set aside, his toes curl into the sand. Face tilted up to the afternoon sun, he looks as if could absorb energy directly.

Most of all, it’s not gobsmackingly humid and sticky-wet undershirts, the sort of thing to slay a man from more temperate climes. Bucky casually strips to his t-shirt, shucking his coat off. All’s well, as long as no mosquito raises its pointy proboscis. "So which of these is worth the bother?" A poke slides along the indented coastline, sliding in and out, swirling around towns as he goes. "Or should we just blitz Savannah, declare our overnight residency on a rooftop, and jet out before anyone notices?"

"I like Savannah, but I'm not interested in crowds or dealing with questions from well-meaning locals," Steve says. "We came out here for a holiday. I’m fine if that means staying out here until we leave, seeing not a soul in the world.”

The other question has him pause, entertaining the notion. “Tybee, maybe. I'd say Daufuskie could be worth the trek. It's really empty now. This whole area really is something. Quietest place I've ever been," he adds. He turns a lazy look on Bucky, lets it linger.

How not to feel his pulse quicken and his mouth go dry under that look? Bucky rolls his shoulder, working out the stiffness of the metal apparatus buried into the scar tissue around his prosthetic. These days, the sheen catching the sunlight doesn’t make him cringe. “I like the quiet. We’ll lay low and spend an afternoon doing absolutely nothing good.”

“That a promise?” Steve arches an eyebrow, gold-flecked. Holding up that barrier of general boyish charm has to take a fair bit out of him, but here no one judges their every move. Relationships are complicated things in the spotlight, especially when one partner has a ledger redder than the Soviet flag. "I can think of a fair few things to do without anyone around."

Bucky’s expression turns musing. "As long as I don’t have to share you, sure." Bucky doesn't sound upset by this; he’s used to calls that bring them out to missions or Steve called in. "I'd take quiet. But really, I'm flexible. Just so long as you're around, I'm happy."

A bold, broad admission right there, even though they’ve shared so much.

Shoulders roll. "I like to get away now and then. City is where the action is, but the rural life has a certain charm.” Steve takes a step over the sand, leaving behind the beach in favour of moving closer to Bucky. "We can head over to Tybee Island and explore. Call about some kind of boat, and I’ll get ready. I insist we roll in the flowers." Azaleas and rhodos are heavenly.

For a moment, he’s almost as bright as those flowers.

"A'right," Bucky says, amused. He starts flicking through options on his phone. Quiet it is. A canoe on Tybee shouldn’t be hard to find, and he can almost ignore how their shadows mingle. Any closer and his growing need, spattered by the previous night’s fantasies, will not be something he can suppress.  

Steve reaches out to steal the hand not occupied by the phone, pulling Bucky's flesh arm to him. A fuss could halt that theft, and when it doesn’t come, the golden magpie runs his thumb around the pulse point at Bucky’s wrist. He bows his head, bending forward, the golden locks flecked by paler streaks closer to platinum. Teeth apply their blunt pressure to the fleshy part of the other man’s palm, biting in a long crescent that starts at the outer rim and ends upon the thumb.

The bites have Bucky nearly dropping the phone -- hastily punching in the last digits to secure a boat reservation, before he smiles shakily at Steve, colour creeping in to the pale cheeks. Raising goosebumps, too. He marks well enough, too. “What’re you… You okay?”

"Seem perfectly fine to me," Steve answers, the muffled response settled upon the seam between the first knuckle of the thumb. He marches a route down the vertical arrow in his own damn good time, which is characteristically patient: delayed, mostly straight, and diverted every fourteen millimeters by the need to start lavishing the nip or, for some spice and variety, the swipe of his tongue. Bucky's skin beckons a slow exploration over warm textured flesh, Steve’s tongue and lips are unnaturally heated, a hint to the burning incandescence. His words are muffled, an afterthought striking him. "We might need a cottage, just in case. Make sure to ask for a big bed. If they have two beds, tell them that simply won't do. You'll need something big enough to be bent over."

Bucky laughs, softly, a little hiss of air. "Bit late to be telling me. This place isn’t enough for you?" he drawls. A bit of hasty fumbling while Steve suckles on his fingers and the skin at his wrist takes all the concentration he can muster, and the soft pressure of those demanding lips has him painfully, immediately aware of how confining his jeans are. But with dogged focus, he swipes through a few pages and hits the first promising option. "Found us a cottage, happy? Turns out it's got two bedrooms. One's got a king bed. That'll have to do."

The rumble of response vibrates up his arm, followed by a messy slurp on his thumb. Then teeth, which instantly puts him at aching attention.  
  
“Yeah, plenty,” Steve answers with a hidden smile pressed to that marked skin.

Each kiss or stroke of the tongue makes him shiver. No attempt to snatch his wrist away from beneath his lover's mouth; that curious matter of factness extends even to this. Nothing is concealed from Steve, nothing turned away. The other hand, having left the phone, now turns to stroke through that mass of golden hair, tenderly, before scratching the scalp.

With the whorl of metal fingers on his scalp, Steve stills. Composure masses and lines up in a neat row of guards to defeat the treachery invoked upon those mutinous pleb nerves, singing to the attention delivered right behind the ear and some point up the curl of the nape. "Excellent. You know, we’ve got two beds to use here. And a couch, and a balcony. Lots of space.”

“Lots of places to profane,” Bucky murmurs. “We'll need a drum of lube, so get about to that too, right?" To have any hope of saying all that without sounding like he's got a mouthful of ice cubes, he has to speak quickly.

Steve converts to mostly interposing licks and lazy designs with the tip of his tongue halfway up to Bucky's elbow. Is he done with that phone? Mostly it would seem. Now is the time to attack, pivoting to press his mouth right into the crook of the joint, where soft skin folds just so temptingly. Is Bucky ticklish? Time to vibrate lips and find out.

"I'll bring us some," Bucky adds, but his eyelids are fluttering. There's the scent of sunscreen and seawater and his own bittersweet clean skin. "I'm looking forward to doing not much there but walking on the beach, eating, sleeping, and fucking.” He sighs, as he stretches his arm to give Steve better access. A gentle tug, his hand knots in that tousled hair -- maybe scolding, maybe teasing.

No reprimand is forthcoming audibly. Bite, then, and leave a proper crescent. Steve raises his head to the tug. "Do not make me pin you down right here. I have every intention to, given how often you lounge about. How can I possibly be good when you make me think terrible things?." The very notion of his impropriety lights Steve's eyes to unholy brightness, amusement and desire slipping out of eclipse. Bucky stiffens as he speaks, trying not to groan.

Back down, then, he brands Bucky with another swirl of his tongue. "Maybe a fire on the beach, provided we won't get chased off by the Coast Guard for lighting pirate beacons."

So, whatever his cool in public, and he can be fabulously reserved in a way that gives even the English a run for their money. Bucky has no such chill in private. At least where Steve is concerned. The bite makes him all but jitter with it, as if at a sudden chill. "We'll get sand everywhere," he says, mildly, but his eyes have gone hooded, with that raptor's gleam. "I can't help lounging," he protests, with mock innocent. "And yes, let’s fire on the beach."

Reserve is something of an art with Steve. He wears his heart on his sleeve but those public faces cover up the private thoughts and feelings he can’t share so easily. The barriers barely stand on that beach. He doesn't need chill around Bucky. Chill only works when they want ice cubes. "Azaleas don't grow in sand. I might relent and find you a bench, but I want crushed flowers in your hair and the same flaming heat in your cheeks when you have to explain to the groundskeeper somehow we damaged something."

They both stand there in startled wonder. Holiday is turning out to be a _good_ thing where it comes to hearing filthy, fucking gorgeous words out of Steve’s mouth. Bucky shifts, trying to ignore the impossible tightness in his jeans.

"No, they don't," he concedes, tucking away his phone, and grinning at Steve, irrepressible. "There will be some at the place I just rented for us." Privacy, open spaces, flowers, and the beach in the near distance. "You wanna go back in for now?"

Still eyeing Steve, he keeps stroking his hair. He never does get enough of any kind of touch. Especially not when it brings that quiver to the man’s back and his shoulders tense.

The phone is just about forgotten. "I insist on azaleas.” Steve nods back to the house.

“I could be a total bugger and tell you no sex until we find one, but that would be needlessly cruel and unusual punishment for myself," Bucky points out.

That gets him a throaty chuckle and a pained grin as the metal hand falls away from his scalp. Steve tries not to lean too firmly into the fading caress down his side. He reaches up to tousle Bucky's hair, palm to his scalp, his own locks a mess and easily restored by a good shake of his head. "Back in? What's in your heart of hearts?"

"I'm thinking I'll pick some azalea blossoms on the way and put 'em on the pillow. Letter of the law, an' all," Bucky says, with an insinuating grin. He bows his own head to the tousling -- dark hair that never quite stays smooth, blown around his shoulders in a heavy mantle. "To stay you until we get out to the island. Sound good?" he asks, looking up from under his lashes.

Letter of the law, with someone sworn to seeing it fulfilled properly. Steve eloquently twists his shoulders in a neat shrug. He leans over to kiss Bucky atop his dark head, nose buried in the loose thicket of hair. Scent is such an overpowering effect on him, not just the pheromone cocktail capable of sending his thoughts teetering into peaceful oblivion on a stutter-skipping needle across a record. He loops his arm around the other man’s shoulder, pulling him nearer. "And once we get out to the island, you planning to dash off into the waves and lurk behind a dune as soon as I turn my back?"

Bucky sighs. With his best friend so close, he can feel almost punch drunk on the sun and sea and that already rather aquatic soap Steve uses, and that regular tinge of leather that always lies around him beneath. He leans in to the embrace, that graceful, grateful yielding. "Only to jump you from behind one," he assures the blond softly.

"I'll hold you to that. Mind if you end up with an elbow to the gut I'm going to feel bad." Steve, ever protective of others, issues a warning and a rueful shake of his head. "Come, then. I can't very well have you right here. That chair would go flat. It looks unfit for a grasshopper to spring around."

Bucky smiles one of those heady grins, his thoughts dancing around his skull. Plans form fully realized, the things he needs to do and intends. "Yeah. I wouldn’t want the interruption to us having fun," he agrees, looking back to where they're staying now, the house rising above the lawn.

A private sanctuary on the edge of the city, edge of the state, almost falling into the Atlantic. Hard to believe the sea is almost tolerable at this time of year when Long Island Sound churns cold and wet. Eventually Steve will take coffee and admire the freedom implicit in the hissing water, in the hum of brine and sand under the waves. Not right now.

He curls his fingers in Bucky's, fitting their palms together. It's easy to follow him in and surrender to merely following, however they might want to go.

Bucky knows less about the layout than even Steve, but finding his way inside and up the stairs taken three at a time is no trouble. Two bedrooms and he naturally backs into the larger of the bedrooms, leading Steve, solicitous as if the blond were a new bride, bringing his knuckles to his lips.

"You know how much I want you right about now?" Steve crosses the threshold on his own two feet. If they were making it official, there would be broom jumping. The sunlight shines in a golden aureole around him, drifting through the open windows. He pauses, reaching a hand to close the shade, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Leave it the way it is. No one to see,” says the brunet. Though there might be, and that puts a thrill scorching up his spine. something he needs to look into for later, all told. Steve might not go for a tryst in public, but the idea of someone happening by while his bare ass flexes with every stroke is impossibly beguiling.

A swallow might be worrying under other circumstances. Here it only indicates a slow uncurling arousal. The blond barely bothers worrying about the bedroom, eyes only for Bucky. For the way his lips contour to uplifted knuckles. "All right. It stays open."

Bucky brushes his mouth over the back of that hand -- courtly, at first, that gesture. But followed by more thorough caresses. Lips and tongue on the knuckles, each in turn, and then the palm, tracing the lines. "You’re making that garden sound awful tempting. You among the flowers groaning my name as a start."

The flirtation is a risk. He never knows exactly where Steve is most comfortable, and whether he might push a little too far. The sunny grin he receives acts as a thumbs up, and safe to proceed.

"I'm going to insist on Hawai'i, one day." Steve straightens up and curls his fingers at the back of his neck, rubbing his spine. "Are you going to tell me to find my sword and knight you?" He would, too, if asked. "There's an image, you down on one knee and all the trappings, those tight breeches and boots. Would you like it?"

Steve in tight breeches on his knees sends a flush of red to Bucky’s cheeks. “Do I look dead?”

He doesn’t wait for an another. Another round of teasing to counterpoint the kisses against his knuckles makes him tremble too much under the blond’s tongue weaving its dulcet courses.

“Not to me.” A flash of those blue eyes go to his midsection and down, pulling straight to the tail of Bucky’s t-shirt lying over his jeans. They both know stripping the denim will leave nothing to the imagination, his cock free to point straight at the man he wants. “You need some relief right now, don’t you?”

"We’ve waited long enough," Bucky agrees. Then he asks, looking up, "Do you want me on my knees? I don't need an accolade as an excuse.” He turns his attention to painting a kiss on Steve’s hand. His mouth follows the veins of the wrist, a mirror to what Steve was doing outside. Deliberate as a cat, even as his other hand comes to rest on Steve's side, fingers light, drawing him towards the bed.

The blond man is pulled on that serene tide right up to the bed, overshadowing the bedspread. To topple or not? No, though he withdraws his hand with reluctance from Bucky's kisses before another temptation leaves him curled up sleepily on his side, dozing to the tender ministrations. He makes no move to extract himself otherwise, expression almost tentative after a moment. "I always want you, Buck, no matter where you are. Doesn’t matter so much to me.” Without preamble, he reaches for Bucky’s shirt and hauls it up.

He laughs at that, tugs off his shirt. "You’re overdressed for this. Come on, out of it." An exchange is necessary, and Bucky shimmies out of the cotton tee. No sooner is his chest bare than he lifts the hem of Steve's shirt, and kneels, indeed, to leave a kiss right below the navel.

Steve murmurs his approval, suppressing the louder sounds that would be inappropriate in a place like this. The lovely old seaside home deserves better treatment. "Glad you came with me. It wouldn’t be nearly so good without you.”

Bucky watches as he hooks his thumb in the belt-loop of his jeans, hesitating before he reaches the zipper and the button. That’s entertainment enough and the brunet swats his hand away. If anyone is going to be unzipping Steve’s pants, it’s going to be Bucky.

The other hand cups the side of Bucky's face where sharp lines define the delineation of jaw and cheekbone meeting. So warm, even where those fingertips are rough with work and labour. Dark hair falls around the spread fingers, silken and sweet. "Take your pants off. I want to see you."  

A quick jerk of his chin consents to the request. His own pleasure can wait a moment. Bucky deftly removes the defenses around Captain Rogers first, finding the brass button of his designer jeans, peeling them open. Lifting off the edge of the bed, Steve gets just enough height to make hauling the pants down easy. He presses the waistband down.

That's always part of the fun, undressing Steve. His hands spread out to the hips to help, skinning them off gently, lest something snag. "Any tighter, and I'd be able to tell your religion just by looking at you," he says, deadpan. "Take all of it off." A kiss for that hand, a look predatory in its laziness. He may be the one kneeling, but he has Steve right where he wants him.

Light forever leaps and paints the walls in underwater coruscations, ripples gathered from the window. No hiding here in the shadows. Basking is essential to such intimacies. Steve finishes the last bits of undressing. Goodbye black boxer shorts, slid down to pool at his feet, and therein lies the imperfections in miniature: the healing scar on his thigh from a recent mission, not fully erased by the serum.

“Good?” The almost dreamy tone from Steve settles over Bucky, allying any of the old doubts and nervousness that tend to rear their heads right before he commits himself.

"Mmmhmm," he agrees, with a judge's deliberation. Long fingers to stroke between those thighs, pausing over the puncture marks. Each is sealed with a kiss. "Hedonist, indeed," he adds, kissing the root of that length. "Corruptor of veterans, ruiner of soldiers' virtue." Any possible offense he quickly blunts with another kiss. “Insatiable, aren’t you?”

He lifts Steve's feet out of the confines of pants and boxers, each in turn. Another lick travels up the strong lines of the inner thigh, patient, thoughtful, as if he had to evaluate the blond for taste, first.

A low growl indicates some degree of approval. Judge seated, executioner standing, only fair. Steve obliges by discarding with the clothing in rapid order, yanking his t-shirt over his head to toss away, and he has a dancer's skill at going en pointe to push aside the pants and underwear. Goodbye, be forgotten until morn. "You'd rather sit doodling at your desk? We can arrange that, while I figure out the next mission." He offers a burning bright grin. Stoicism in the face of gluttony, Bucky receives that pointed look as he rocks his hips. Another lick leads cool fire everywhere, stirring the blood to a feverish height.

He strokes the sepia locks against Bucky’s scalp with his fingers, and leans forward slightly, knee to the bed. Easier, really, for a bit of support. Just a bit. "Distractor of nimble minds, tempter from proper work. That tongue of yours.” He blows out a shaky breath. “Tsk, I'm not feeling the least bit of guilt or shame, love."

A long, deliberate sinking down finally puts them where they should be -- Steve seated on the bed, Bucky on his knees, the resplendent length of Steve’s cock poised on his tongue. Lips seal from crown to root with one long, inevitable descent stifling all response for a time. Then the python grip of throat muscles work him, until breath gives out, and he withdraws.

"You're research," he informs Steve, lazily. "You never know. I might end up writing erotica.Even if it's only for the desk drawer, as the Russians used to put it."

For several seconds, the world whites out in a snowfall of glittering heat and perfectly attuned suction. Steve even ceases to breathe. His eyes hood, a banked spotlight gone into partial eclipse, while the warm mouth pulling on him drags out convection currents of heat from him. The air is laced by the scent of metal and amber. The minute drag of Bucky's lips over his shaft pull him forward, prolonging the contact, fighting against the need to thrust hard right then and there. No, he shan't do that, for all the echoing constriction seeps through stinging nerves to respond at the maestro's summons.

The crown gets treated like a sugared strawberry for a little, mouth and tongue applied, sucking any of those harbingers of release with an eagerness that belies his feigned languidness. Bucky’s hand comes up to grip, with a hint more roughness. Coaxing Steve to writhing abandon is entirely his purpose in that moment, suckling and flicking his tongue around the rim of the crown. Roused out of his own play, the tension's making his own cock go taut, a string being tuned.

Attenuated gasps have a nice ring, through the prospect of wanton smut buried in someone's drawer -- _Bucky's_ \-- jolt him forward again, guiding his cock deeper, pushing his palm against the sharply defined cheek it touches. Steve tries to catch his breath and fails. "You know they write all sorts of trash about me as it is? Apparently, I've a weak spot for fellatio and being done in a hallway just out of sight of the team." 

Because like you do, in the age of slash fic. All he can do not to buckle onto both knees for the addition of that hand, but so be it. Some reciprocity is due, fingers sliding around to cup the back of Bucky's head instead, his eyes tilted down to watch it all. "Should we set up some account? Nng. Bet we'd get at least four comments."

"Art imitates life," Bucky says, slurring deliberately around what of the end he can tuck into the cheek without the unpleasant rasp of teeth on satiny skin. His tongue is an agile serpentine presence, washing over the hard length muting his response. The first traces of salty precum stain his lips, mana from heaven. "You do like it." His eyes close in amusement before he performs another of those maddening shake-straw, cheek-hollowing fits of suction, from the golden hair at the base all the way up, before he rises.

Not that teeth produce much of a negative reaction, other than setting him off to jump. Steve swallows back whatever recommendations he appears to hold right there, golden lashes fluttering, the satin and velvet concoction brewed in Bucky's mouth too good to resist. So much for that, next traces of salt stronger than the first, underlying the usual taste of him with a mineral resonance.

"I think I'm gonna bend you over the bed," he ways, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "And I like the idea of writing smut about you with your approval. Want me to? Not like there aren't whole websites dedicated to it."

Toes curl, and he shifts support when the brown-haired assassin just sees fit to give him an aneurysm. Nearly. "Is that the case? Fine. Only if you give me good lines, though." Bluff evasion there, even as he reaches down to stroke his glistening shaft, the rough twist of his wrist taking the edge off for exactly two seconds. "If it makes you happy, do it. I get beta readership." How does he know these terms? Social media maven. Steve might just have an idea based on the hopeless chatter of junior agents in SHIELD.

A flick of his tongue past his teeth, serpentine, as he rises. Of course there's lubricant handy -- always a crucial supply. Bucky, pragmatic, tends to carry it in packets in a tin in his pocket. Habit makes perfect. The lid swiveled off, he pulls out one of the foil packets and tears it open.

Steve watches with a quiet, burning focus. "And I get to suck you at the good parts. If you're hard, you're in my mouth." He drops onto the bed, finding his way onto his stomach. The shocked heat of his cheeks hidden in the crook of his arms gives some privacy. Sprawling out is easy. "Happy?"

"Of course," he says, magnanimous, now that he has Steve where he wants him, both metaphorically and not. "Nothing without your approval. And well, truth in reporting." Lube warms in Bucky’s palm, spread out to drip off the flesh and bone digits. Applying the metal ones is too cruel, even for Steve. He looks up with a coy smile, before he strokes a paired fingersful down from the tailbone, tracing that cleft to the darker ring awaiting him. Teasing, lightly, even as he settles behind Steve, only resting his length against the curve of one buttock. Almost idle, that position, save for those little rocks of his hips, contemplating the spectacle of his lover's body.

Steve is none too proud to admit the cooler temperature affects him, his breath inhaled with a hiss through gritted teeth. Even warmed, the contrast forever exists, but he's warm as a cat at the best of times. Naturally the addition of the coated fingers tracing down to his hole causes a corresponding clench of ringed muscle underneath the questing digits that anoint him, a feather stroke from Bucky enough to set off a detonation of fireworks under the skin. Fantail sprays of sensation roll outwards, surrendering tension inch by perilous inch. He props his head on his arm, all the better to look back directly at the dark-haired man. Golden locks shot by the brighter platinum fire cloud his expression somewhat, but insufficient to blot it entirely.

"We'll be the least likely suspects. None will be any wiser." Because being on display comes naturally, he damn well basks in the attention, rocking slightly upwards to change the angle at which that burning brand sears his awareness, as much as courses along the tightening muscle flexed just to tighten up his pucker for a moment.

Bucky knows the strain pressing down on him, and he wants to feel resistance every bit as much as Steve. Plowing through might hurt, so his fingertips stay motionless within the quivering ring, barely turned from side to side for an additional layer of stimulation. Another kind of flirting tests how tight the blond wants to stay, looking for any opening to literally take advantage of.

“You’re hot,” he idly comments. “Been waiting all day to claim your ass. Watching you get off the bike, I was about ready to bend you over the rail.”

Steve clamps down hard enough to squeeze his fingers together, grunting into the bed. His hips start to rise, strong legs pushed against the mattress and the whole frame shifts in response. Lying on his stomach has the distinct disadvantage of trapping his cock up hard against his stomach. The best he can do is shuttle back and forth for a little friction against the underside to alleviate the ball-tightening force gathering as Bucky’s fingertips twist in his reddened pucker, willing it to part further.

That sight sends Bucky’s expression from amused tenderness to that almost hieratic stillness. Sheer desire the fiery overlay over affection and love, the body momentarily roaring loud enough to drown out the heart. He sinks fingers into the muscle of that other buttock, almost hard enough to bruise, before massaging. A feast offered is a spur to a glutton, and the assassin, for all his apparent asceticism, knows exactly no restraint. Steve Rogers is his particular hunger any given moment, and spread out before him.

Ascetics always fall the hardest to the luxurious feast for the senses. Flesh on the makeshift altar is just one vice for Bucky to enjoy, sinking himself into all those sensory distractions. Pilloried for their appetites, do not the most restrained explode in all directions when set free? Only one way to know that, and Steve braces himself for whatever Bucky unleashed prepares to do. He can at best steady himself, breathing shallow and heightened, his lips caught between his teeth. Never mind the throbbing ache of his heartbeat echoed in the stiff length fit to drill through diamond, something he steadfastly tries to ignore. For all that his fingers curl into the coverlet, the death-grip on his buttock by Bucky’s metal hand takes control of the seized senses, back arching, a cat in reverse offering itself up for more of all, everything, whatever is on offer for his lover.

But he has patience enough to release that grip, return his efforts to more gentle caresses. He pulls his digits free of the velvety heat, watching the slightly swollen hole close slowly. Slick fingertips spin their sinuous journey: all but tickling, stroking lightly up the line from muscle to tailbone. "Exactly," he says, before pinching the pucker gently, as if to seal things all the more firmly. Steve’s reactions are tested and plumbed with almost religious zeal.Then the broader strokes of a thumb; how rough can he be without hinting at penetration?

"Yeah." Articulate response reduced to the core, he ventures to stretch out the trail etched along the diminishing, fused vertebrae lower into darker territory. A pinch isn't as distracting as the strokes sliding along a scripted arc that has only one definite end. Sealing off any chance of showing frustration, for there's a certain glory in battle against himself, one he refuses to back down from. An officer of his calibre backs down from nothing. Especially not being set alight the way Bucky has discovered, until the quivering ring softens just so much. It flickers, nursing at the void, eager for further attention.

The prospect of his lover, waiting, on that plain bedspread… Roman decadence has nothing on it. Maybe that gourmand hedonism can be blamed on all the period of denial in cryosleep or Soviet hell; away from water or scent or silence or the pleasure of companionship. Certainly from the sensation of his skin against another's. Bucky’s eyes narrow.

But he proves himself a tease again, exerting a spiralling pressure with one fingertip, just at the center of the anal starburst, thumb pressing in a little further along, the tension adding to the sharpness of the sensation. Feathering along within, he creeps up on that sweet spot with a deliberation meant to tease.

Steve slides his hands back parallel to his tailbone, elbows pointed to the ceiling, the steep progression smoothing out skin naturally dusted by a faint tan that never really fades. Mirroring a masseuse's efforts, his palms press down, loosening what knotted anticipation lingers. Bucky's expression is enough to implode his heart and erode all ties of urgency, suspending him in the gravity-free bloom of burning, seeking need.

He could just float along for an hour or so, coaxed to a plateau in the burning, unprotected fury of that southern sunlight. Heat dissolves remaining resistance under Bucky's thumb, the pad dipping into the molten cauldron, pulled the deeper into the void. Tremors flit along the dilating and cinching ring snapped over his knuckles, and the liquid note cusped on parted lips announce exactly what impact he makes upon a soft landing.

Meant to soothe and madden at once, the little flickering strokes slide deeper within. He has some pity, enough to pull the blond's narrow hips back and reach beneath to caress that aching length trapped beneath him. No source of pleasure left neglected, palm slick and cool before it tightens, constricting as he strokes. A bow allows him to kiss the nape of Steve’s neck, nuzzling at the golden hair, pressing himself again against the curve of a hip. Always one to tease himself as well as his partner, spin foreplay out like taffy, Bucky doesn’t surrender to rushing.

What salve Bucky bestows only pushes the envelope further, albeit not in outwardly measurable ways immediately. The needle measuring pressure proverbially builds up slowly instead of a sharp spike, due in no small part to the length of his hard cock brushing against a stiff buttock, the blond sliding his fingertips further back to find the bell-end with a caress. Distracting himself invariably keeps the scalding shock of a counterstroke from setting Steve off too soon, though his eyes widen in all their celestial blue brilliance upon the tightening pull. No one can rescue him from the bed they've made, nor would he allow even Nick to haul him away.

Bucky runs his slick hand up and down until thoroughly coating Steve’s cock, prepared to peel open another foil packet to completely drench the long, rigid shaft to its tip. He’s dreamt plenty of times of seeing it dripping viscous wetness onto the floor. Those smooth strokes of his hand pull Steve forward, burying himself into the sanctuary of a closed fist, arching like a cat for more contact when the speed upticks just a fraction. The sloppy noises of the lube bubbling around his fingers have no small part to do with the blond fucking his hand, powerful jabs of his hips shaking the bed and the assassin with it.

The next sound is every bit as hypnotic as the first. Not much of a talker in bed, the only notes Steve can conceivably hit are low velvet banked against the warbling crack of guttural urgency. Need resonates everywhere, the press of his ass back into Bucky, the whipcord leanness tightening up, the throbbing weight filling out boa coils spooled around him. A kiss to the nape is lightning, thunder the flexing of his knees, clap of the headboard to the wall. Well, only a matter of time before they knock dust and plaster to the floor.

To be wanted. Palpably, undeniably so -- nothing like it, beauty gone from its untouchable distance to within the span of his hands. He removes his hand from the thick cock, reluctant but essential nonetheless.

"I love it," he confesses, happily, "When you make those sounds." A last fillip, very nearly the motion of someone trying to pop the cork out of a bottle of something sparkling, before he backs himself enough to lay his own length along that cleft, pressing forward, a gentle weight. A little frottage, apparently, as he fondles his lover. Idle toying, rather than stroking, he works his thumb at the head.

It would help if Steve could find his tongue instead of choking on it, eyes fixed on the middleground separating the patterned bedspread from the terribly boring wall. He can be passionate at the best of times, outright filthy propelled into a deeper place, but never cruel. His mood tips into lustful, wanton. The kind that calls for a hand clapped over his mouth and hard, short thrusts to quell the fire typically brings out utterly inappropriate language. Mind, the mood might be a fingertip away when they've talked about writing half-imagined trysts for public consumption.

"Don't go," he hisses to Bucky, the mind reeling with the sunlight eclipsed by the inevitable spin around the globe. Hands reposition to grip his buttocks, Steve screws his mouth up, distracted by some ephemeral concern. Allowing that teasing progress, understanding it, still comes hard to someone entirely used to being in control of near anything. But the shallow vale easily accommodates Bucky, and by offering a place for him, probably invites him to drape a little more. God knows both of them fit together like a proper jigsaw, with requisite grinding to get a hermetic seal not even scissors, a ball peen hammer, and a vise can pull apart.

"You hate waiting," Bucky's voice is feline in its smugness. "I understand, sweetheart," There's a swat for one buttock, chiding, as he grinds. But he relents on the both of them, kicks Steve's legs further apart with a peremptory instep, then he's leaning in on that point, crown slick, gravity more than muscle in charge. Slow progress -- this won't be one of those quick, violent trysts in the elevator or the dressing room. Something about watching Steve apply whatever maquillage a given stage demands is one of those funny little triggers for Bucky, as the pair has found. Too many emergency adjustments to uniforms as they prepare to face the world or finish up from a mission are going to tip off their associates, sooner or later.

"I hate exposure." Lies, little white ones, substitute for the real truth that he hates the absence of contact. Steve is a glutton for touches of all sorts, the familiar tousling of his hair or the straightening of his collar before stepping outside. "Waiting, yeah. I can do it all night." Another white lie or a truth. He might be writhing and incoherently growling at the end, but four, five hours edging could be on the agenda. Bucky's own barriers are ever a case for study and exploration, pushing here and there, but his resolve is giving out to the press of that heavy cock against his overly sensitive hole, the long line a blazing axis from his heavy balls up to the quivering pucker.

“Open, Steve.” A wordless nudge pushes them forward. Bucky has all the apparent patience in the world, but internally things fall apart, tugged perilously close. If Steve had any idea how close he is, he might not be teasing so much.

Hands slide away from their current position on either buttock by millimeters, giving a whispering glimpse of dark rose rimmed in warmer pink under a gloss of lube. The blond offers himself, and an unparalleled view of his ass, ready for a sublime violation.

 _Ready to be fucked, really there’s no possible option but that._ Bucky can’t help but leaking a few wet drops onto the lube, hotter than the magma boiling up from Hawaiian volcanoes.

The confession is rough and nearly apologetic. “Buck. God, please, have mercy.”

Uplift of the hips answers the smack in a way, and oh, that's exactly where Steve stops. Never mind he might creep up to the headboard or rear back, no, he freezes like the photographer just called 'there!' and a crackling flashbulb erupts. Enough for just the crown to hover within an imprisoning embrace, squeezed and worked over, the burning ring not quite clutching tight enough to stop progress. But advance is a game of continental motion, ground slowly to a standstill and snapping out of compression into an advance. Hollowed out cheeks and a marred line of his mouth mark the soldier's angular appearance, teeth definitely nipping his lip.

Hesitation. He could tease. The imp of perversity dictates that he withdraw. The heat in his own blood snarls dissent. More, all, now, for him. "I know, angel," he says, drawl full of tenderness so rarely seen under the public lights. "You're a very patient man." He, however, is not. Strong hands are spreading Steve, baring him further. That hole isn’t nearly so wide enough, not the flirtatious obscenity it should be, ripe and swollen from hard fucking. The kind of swell it gets after being jackhammered is a beautiful sight, and Bucky winces, restraining himself. A few more seconds, no more. That’s all he has to wait.

The elastic ring goes that much more taut, as he leans in. Bringing muscle to bear, rather than relaxing in line with gravity, he aligns his cock and thrusts inside, pushing himself deep in one solid stroke. "Me, not so much."

"You and your computer say otherwise." A hoarse laugh, dazzled scintillae thrown off  Steve coalesce upon his skin in beads of perspiration. He throws his head back, tossing his hair. "That gonna be what you write? How you -- ah -- make me take you in one go?" A broken syllable hovers on the tongue, bisected neatly down the center with that extra effort to pull him wide. God, he should blush. Not on his life.

No telling how it causes him to react except for spreading dampness on the bedspread, a snapped elastic through torqued muscles dragging him forward an inch or two on his knees. He's still complicit in helping Bucky, fingers punching white crescents a quintet, thumb pressed hard into the outer points of his hipbones. So much more taut, so much more with the inundation. Time to be grateful for a lack of patience, even if the sound to crackle on the ceiling or invigorate the soul is pure blissful torment, capitulating even as they sink down into the abyss together.

"Maybe," he says, offhand. "But do I have the words to capture how beautiful you are like this? How utterly enspelled I was the first time you took me? That's going to take real work." Real work is the knotting of muscle, driving him in, a blow designed to ignite that spot of dense nerves, followed by dragging withdrawal over Steve’s prostate. He loves feeling the shock of tight muscles cinched around him, watching the struggle not to slam back into him. Angling himself with a hand, he starts to move in earnest, fast and deep the way they both like it. "How insatiable you are when you ravage poor, innocent soldiers?"

If he weren't already holding his buttocks apart, he might be ripping fresh holes into the mattress, finding handholds to scale the bed. Steve shudders and the instinct to bear down conflicts with that infinitesimal constriction trying to compress the camel proverbially passing through the eye of a needle. Hurts. Hurt isn't a problem, in this case, just another tumbled sensation along with the welter. "That smart mouth," Steve grits out. Hard. Everything is hard, especially thrusting himself up, the better to try and steal Bucky's breath when turning his head to steal a kiss is damn near impossible. Besides, it's not as though the direct abuse on the receptive nerves, like a heavy-handed tech hammering out a telegraph, won't have the brunet railed like an unlatched door banging in a hurricane.

There's a hand planted between those wing-like shoulder blades, heavy, impatient. Followed by a thrust to match, the sharp points of narrow hips against that curve of muscle. "Oh, God, you..." Control derailed: the sensation of that body no longer poised behind him but spilling forward into a crouch, belly against back, teeth finding a home on the blond's throat. A strained kiss, at awkward angles, teenage enthusiasm. Nearly enough to make him lose coordination.

Another victory from the one yielding is given to Bucky in its way. Laughter shocked out of Steve’s corded throat clatters against the low, primal moan. He can squeeze again, and does so, the raw intensity a shock to the already overloaded system. All spirals around the shifting fronts, how the blond bears down on the cock reaming his tender hole and filling him completely. He tries to slow the pace but his greedy ring buckles under the wide girth, stretched out a little every time.

"There," It's all dark satisfaction in that breathless monosyllable. "There. Fuck me back. Take it." Hitching Steve's hips up just enough brings that hand back into play, lifting them to stroke the blond’s cock roughly. Milking him with a grip tight enough to bring it to the edge of pain, where release is all the more violent for its purity. A dragging nip of teeth pulls that mobile mouth out of shape.

Bucky's kiss demands an answer, and he shall have it, the sinuous arch Steve can attain outright obscene -- not quite unnatural, but damn close as he twists to press his lips roughly into the bite, into the warmth of an offered mouth. Somehow that counters the awkward splay, the heated bombardment in erratic salvos that threatens to undermine the foundation of restraint. Steve so wants to hold out and he can't, rutting in spite of the slower beginning, pushing and dancing on the proverbial pin. If said pin were, say, the mental equivalent of a telephone pole. In effect, it can feel that way.

Awkward and heated, a tangle of limbs that mocks the ritualized eroticism on display on so many screens, small and larger. But the rolling cadence of thrust and joining evens out into something smoother, urgent. Bucky’s breath burns at Steve's ear, panting, harsh, though there are endearments whispered, now and again. Almost poetic, entirely at odds with the sheer brutality of what his body's doing.

Hands-free, Steve immediately plants his palm into the bed for some kind of fundamental backstop for the rough pace to follow. Shaking out his golden hair, he utters a hollow, tight laugh. "I know you love it when I take your cock." They both do, truth told, and no sooner told than Bucky's wish is his command. More or less. A furtive roll of his stomach cantilevers him back, the sharp, hard reverse a definitive crackling collision. A moment of hang time keeps him aloft until the inevitable shockwave protests along simmering nerves, a blooming heat somewhere in his belly matching those roughly centered strokes hitting exactly on the bullseye. Or close enough to count.

He loses most of the capacity to speak, anyways, in the seething roil focused on something of an erotic joust: recover, reorient, slide back along the thick girth taken in so willingly. In truth, breaking against the soaring cliffs of ecstatic relief is guaranteed so long as Bucky doesn't relinquish his grip, the bucking force mirroring the strokes until something has to give. And it will, a collapse foretold from the stiffening knees up to the quivering tension snapped tight around him, the way the blond just can't move in the throes of blistering release.

"Don' stop," a hissed prayer for salvation.

The peak and then the stoop, Bucky hurtles down from that aching height. Stop? Never think it, not with that body sheathing him in impossible, maddening friction. It is rutting, all animal enthusiasm and no art, shoving them both to the edge of the mattress. The hand's as insistent, grip loose at the root and tighter at the head, pressure rising. A bite to the curve of that ear, pale as a shell, marks Steve; then a nip at the joining of shoulder and throat. "Come for me, lover. Come now. Come on my cock," Utterly unlike that gentle drawl, grunted orders in time with the sound of flesh against flesh.

Artistry in aggression might be possible to summon, but not on the cusp of tumbling into a freefall. Steve's real gift is extending the inevitable to its utmost, in part by digging in past the point of discomfort and carrying on. Soldier that he was in mundane life reinforces his ability to endure by pushing back against Bucky, flexing and rubbing, grinding in imperfect spirals until the final ruinous leap tosses him into the void.

"Cumming, Bucky," sloughs free in a honeyed snarl, rendered through clashing forces and gritted teeth into a summary confession. As if that was somehow overlooked, the rippling surge of wet heat. His back bows, head dipped, strain at the shoulders almost to the point of throwing off a frisson of charged particles. The last march is always the hardest, letting go, even as his body trembles and shudders hard as any blown racehorse.

The body behind Steve’s is subject to the same violence: tensing, locking, one hand at one of those shoulders, supporting himself. It comes like a seizure, letting go in jolting steps down one after the other, Eros's arpeggio putting that shake in his bones until he unrolls, weight over Steve like a blanket. Hot streams of molten cream erupt out of him to bathe the velvet walls clenching him, another mark laid down on Steve of that shell-shocked love, pure and happy and limb-loosening.

"You're gonna kill me with this someday," he mutters, muffled in that golden corona. "And no one will ever die happier."

No hidden shame in this, least of all for the sublime unleashing of pressure in the best ways. Splatter art has never been to Steve's taste before Bucky; afterwards, he's starting to see the eroticism of Jackson Pollock. Aching in the very best of ways, he suffers whatever bright ideas the assassin executes against him, be that soul-rattling meteorite bombardment down to ending in a sprawl essential for any kind of satisfaction. Giving matters to Steve, a virtue firmly glued to ensuring his star-crossed lover finds replete satisfaction and inability to put three words together. Seven or eight are altogether too many. Validating that subconscious need finally allows him to slump a little deeper, giving way to that simmering ache in his aching hole.

An arm pulled to his cheek makes the perfect pillow. Half-wrapped hugs will do simply until they disengage into a lazy tangle in the dying sunshine. "Been acting like you needed it since morning," he idly mumbles.

Always impatient with clean up, Bucky is hasty for the post-coital closeness. Tissues are wadded and tossed into the bedside trash can, and he settles to lie flank to flank with the blond soldier, gazing at him with that greed that knows nothing of possession. He drapes an arm over Steve's back. "I never cease to be amazed that you'd let me do that to you," he says, simply. "Never."

Drowsy creature, the leonine Apollo refuses to much move. He might get around to worrying about the mess in a few owlish minutes of blinking, mostly using his feet to pull the blankets around so the stained part goes to a lower corner. Swabbing up the rest will come around, and when that passes, Steve collapses back into his comfortable facedown niche until Bucky tells him to move or blankets him again. Hello friendly arm, such a nice pillow. "You've an idea of what I feel like in you. Whyever wouldn't I want it back?" Obvious answer, still, and he lifts his head wearily. A kiss to a bicep will have to do. He drags himself into a slightly more prone roll on his side. "'Sworth pointing out you practically glued me to the bed the first time I had you. No one is gonna let that go."

He needn't move. Not with Bucky content to worry at him like a housecat demanding the best place on the bed. "I thought that would be the only time I got to have you," he explains, nuzzling against Steve's side, confidingly. "You know, checking 'Fuck your best friend' off your bucket list, or something. I couldn't let the opportunity go to waste." Heaven forbid.

"Who the hell has that on their bucket list? I had seduce you and ruin your hole on my bingo card," Steve fires back, biting that friendly arm. He is a damn hedonist when it comes to afterglow antics, smug and drowsy and altogether perking up to sally forth with a tender response. All it takes is a bit of nuzzling his bitten neck, the marks still livid, to ease him back down. "Right up there with 'make the brunet beg to be wrecked on a Friday' and 'bend boyfriend over a railing and make him come in sight of minimum fifteen people.'"

"We haven't managed that one yet," Bucky says, miming writing it down. "We can, though." Grinning back at Steve, nuzzling indeed, he settles into an exhausted fugue. "Unless you're proposing doing it stealthily?"

"Stealth? Do I look like I'm stealthy?" Steve weakly chuckles and waves at himself. “Can’t even keep my head up.” He kisses Bucky's thumb, pressing it to his chest, right over the heart. "Is it fun when you know about it? Wrecking you is rather fun. Long as we're happy in the end. As long as you feel good."

"Living well is the best revenge," Bucky agrees, letting his whole hand follow the thumb, splay over Steve’s heart in kind. "No, you're built for comfort, not for stealth," he teases.

"Does that mean you're telling me to work out more?" Unnecessary comment for a man with an Olympian athlete's build, sleek and powerfully muscular thanks to the serum. Steve sighs. "I've gone to seed and I don't even get a pint at the bar." He grumbles all the same, biting Bucky's arm again. He's going to leave a mark, but he nuzzles it with his cheek.

“If working out means working over your ass, yeah.” A blink banishes whatever drowsiness clings to him, and Bucky can be grateful, once again, to a side benefit of the serum. He’s already feeling the fatigue melt off. “Now roll over and let me make you hard again. It’s our vacation, after all.”

Steve’s laughter turns into an abrupt moan as a metal digit slides back through his swollen rosette.


End file.
